


the jack of hearts is my jackpot

by thimble



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe one day he'd press close and Q wouldn't mind that he smelled of gunpowder; maybe he'd lean in and Q wouldn't pull away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the jack of hearts is my jackpot

_"Because I never expected you to."_

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
They're awaiting rescue in a corner of an abandoned town, half-bombed and very much dead. The last of its inhabitants were forcefully evacuated, hopefully evacuated; the stubborn ones who hadn't fled after seeing a brother or two blown to bits in front of them. If this were some Hollywood horror movie set there'd be burnt soup on a stove that's run out of gas, a doll on the floor that a child couldn't come back for, but it's been months. It didn't even smell like rotting flesh anymore.

  
If he were another man, it would be eerie nonetheless, but Bond finds it peaceful. Beside him Q seems more concerned with his ruined tie than the fact that he was probably sitting on someone's bones.

  
"My sister gave it to me, Christmas of '05."

  
"I'm sorry to hear that." And he is, too, though he delivers it like a tease, like they're used to around each other.

  
"See these?" Q has the tip of it pinched between two fingers, mouth quirked just so. "Sheep. Bloody sheep. Should've thrown it away years ago."

  
He lets go of it, and Bond looks on. The mission had done quite a number on it, and no amount of dry cleaning could remove that much stain. 

  
"And here I thought you just had a fondness for ugly ties."

  
He could've sworn he heard a chuckle at that, though when he turns his gaze back on Q he has his head tipped back, his eyes closed. Ignoring everything but that, he almost looks like he's on vacation, all the lines gone from his face. Ten years younger, which is ridiculous considering how boyish he already is. It never occured to him before now that Q might like the quiet too, usually trapped in that office for days at a time with all those lives in his hands.

  
"How are you liking the Bahamas?"

  
This time Q laughs, glancing at him through cracked lenses. He takes his glasses off, folds them neatly and slips them in his jacket lining.

  
"Fine, just fine. I think my tan's coming along quite nicely." He pauses, drawing something a slender box from one of his many pockets. "Hmm. I forgot I had these."

  
Bond doesn't ask what they are, simply watching Q shake the contents out. Oh. He still had the playing cards. 

  
Q sits up straighter and begins shuffling them. Bond only raises an eyebrow, and Q shrugs as he swiftly distributes a part of the deck evenly between them.

  
"It will take them time to trace our signals, and much longer to get here." Bond seems unimpressed, but Q picks up his share, looking through them. "Can you propose anything better to do?"

  
A thousand other things, Bond wants to say. Find food, find better shelter. Find some damn civilization. Salvage what's left of their weapons and equipment. Explore their temporary hideout. Try not to get killed while waiting.

  
He sighs, gathering the cards in front of him. "What are we playing?"

  
Q's old smile returns, the one he has when he's plotting something he knows Bond won't like.

  
"Go Fish."

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
_"To be your opposite, I suppose I'd have to be a red suit..."_   
_"You'd be the Fool."_   
_"Because I came with you?"_   


 

 

 

 

  
  
It's no secret to anyone, least of all himself. Had he met Q on a beach, in a club, across from him in a cafe -- things would have been different. Different, but not better. He'd be one of Bond's collateral damage, having known too much and still not enough. Bond has left a trail of dead, beautiful people in his wake; it wouldn't be fair at all for someone so young, so valuable, to join them. 

  
He kept his distance. Q's voice in his ear made it easier, because he's found someone he could trust; it made it harder, because it's been too damn long since he's found someone he could need.

  
Sometimes, only sometimes, when there isn't a mission to occupy him, when he could afford an idle thought or two, he let himself picture it. They'd go to art galleries and he'll listen -- it would bore the hell out of him, but he'd listen -- as Q spouts dictionary words at paintings, and he'd take off Q's coat for him when he entered headquarters. One day Q would learn how to brew coffee the way Bond liked it, and Bond wouldn't say a thing or even thank him, but he'd drink it from Q's mug. 

  
Maybe one day he'd press close and Q wouldn't mind that he smelled of gunpowder; maybe he'd lean in and Q wouldn't pull away. Maybe he'd have him right on the desk, on every single desk, until they're filthy and the air inside reeked of their sweat. Maybe he'd walk Q home and ask to come inside; maybe Q would let him. 

  
Once upon a time he would have been stupid enough to act on it, to think it was as simple as whisking Q away from this life, where every hand he'd ever shake would be stained with blood that wasn't theirs. 

  
It wasn't simple anymore, and it never has been. And Q wasn't his to keep.

  
So it's a surprise to everyone, and to Bond most of all, when Q accepted the field mission. Bond is certain at least one person had asked if it's absolutely necessary, but he does it anyway.

  
Q shrugged, packing his equipment away. "It's one place I can't remote access, I'm afraid."

  
"Are you even trained for this?" Bond's tone insisted he doesn't think so, unnerved as Q donned a suit just like his, and hid replicas of his weapons in the exact same places on his body. 

  
"Not as much as you are, I'd assume," Q said, overtly confident for someone who looked like a light breeze could knock him over.

  
"I'd assume the same," Bond quipped, mostly to comfort himself. "Since you seem to have never even stepped outdoors. Be careful. It's equipped with these deadly things called pavements."

  
"You must think you're clever," Q told him, hauling his briefcase off the table. "For someone who's acquired himself a glorified nanny. I'm responsible for you, so don't you get yourself into trouble."

  
Bond didn't reply. Both of them knew it was the other way around.

  
A moment later Q turned around, back to his work desk. He rummaged in a draw before pulling a slim box out and tucking into an inner pocket.

  
He flashed a smile that would have disarmed a lesser man. "I almost forgot. We wouldn't want to get bored."

  
Bond watched him walk away, again, and followed, even as his gut all but shouted that this wasn't a good idea. Q was much too young, thought himself invincible. He thought it was all a game, one he could just start over if he lost a round.  


 

 

 

 

  
  
_"King of Clubs. For the common man."_   
_"You are the furthest thing from common, 007."_   
_"I like the irony. What does that make you?"_   


 

 

 

 

  
  
"You must be joking."

  
"I never joke." If Q's eyes had always been that playful behind the glasses Bond had never noticed, but he's glad they're gone for the moment.

  
"That's a bloody lie and you know it," Bond says in mock indignation. The amusement quickly fades as his fingers come up red where they've touched the back of the cards. He takes a quick look at Q's hands, and they're red too, smudged, like he'd touched wet paint.

  
"Q." His voice betrays nothing, but Q looks up at him quicker than he normally would. "There's blood on the cards."

  
"That would be because I'm bleeding, 007."

  
Bond knows Q's being aggravating on purpose, to make him annoyed rather than worried. Bond was aware of a cut on Q's forehead, one on his lip, but the cards came from inside his coat. He tosses his share away, kneeling up over Q in less than a second. Q puts up no resistance, though he does emit a tiny irritated huff when Bond knocks the cards out of his hands.

  
Q's buttons pop off when Bond yanks his shirt open --  the action seems familiar but misplaced, belonging in a bedroom with a half-finished bottle of champagne instead of here -- and confirms his suspicions. There have been very few instances when Bond hated being right, and this, right now, qualified.

  
"You were going to keep this to yourself, you skinny bastard." He wasn't asking.

  
"It wouldn't have made a difference."

  
Bond presses his lips to a thin line, pushing Q's shirt off his shoulders. "You ought to stop lying to me." 

  
"What are you going to do?" Q grins, and something about it, maybe the blood on his teeth or the bullet hole on his side, made it seem obscene. "Dress my wounds?"

  
"I might as well, since you seem incapable of doing it yourself." Bond makes strips of the shirt; he's used worse for makeshift bandages. 

  
"First Aid is a required course for all Mi6 employees."

  
"So what's your excuse?" Bond pulls him forward to wrap the strips around his middle. Both their heartbeats are gaining, though in Q's part that may just be his body's response to blood loss.

  
"Someone tried to detonate a bomb in Buckingham that day. I was a bit busy--" Q trails off into a moan as Bond tightens the bandages, his breath a notch lighter. It was the first sign he's given that he was even in any pain.

  
Bond backs off to survey his handiwork. It was pitifully sloppy, the remnants of the shirt already blossomed red, Q's narrow chest taking a while to rise and fall. He looks to the sky for a little luck and finds only fear. Even the sun had disappeared, hidden behind some clouds, afraid to shine.

  
"You're supposed to be smarter than I am," Bond says, and Q smiles again. It's a sweet curve of the mouth, found on someone who hasn't lived long enough yet and knows it. 

  
"Don't sell yourself short," Q says, the skin stretched taut over his sharp ribs paling, and it was climbing up his arms, stripping the color off his face like disease. "You have your moments." 

  
It makes Bond laugh; he can do nothing but. Several minutes pass by before he can speak.

  
"There'll be a lot of paperwork to fill out," he says, doing a beautiful job at being nonchalant. "It'll send everyone into a frenzy, trying to find a replacement. Would you really be so unkind to M's blood pressure?"

  
Q understands immediately, if his face is any way to tell. Bond continues, and if it were any other time in any other place, his words would be gentler; he'd be allowed to notice how Q looks right now. 

  
Like someone he wishes he could save.

  
"You'll do me a disservice."

  
Bond stops and inhales, noticing that Q had closed his eyes, and waits for his exhale. _I'll do better next time, god_ , he swears, some blood fresh and some drying on his hands. _Next time, it won't be like this._

  
Then, there. The half-smile is weaker, but it's there.

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
 _"Pick a card. Any card."_

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Between the Cheats' by Amy Winehouse.


End file.
